Old Soldiers: Battle of Dead Town
by LoLGunslinger
Summary: FULL SUMMARY INSIDE As the Eco shortage hits Haven City hard, Torn escapes to the Naughty Ottsel one night to relieve some stress at the bottom of the bottle. But when a figure from a past long thought left behind emerges, he finds himself reliving the military disaster that forced him to desert and join the Underground. A trip that takes him back to the Battle of Dead Town. OCs
1. Prologue

**Old Soldiers: the Battle of Dead Town**

 **Full Summary:** as the eco shortage crisis digs deep, tension sets in across an energy-starved Haven City. To take the edge off, Freedom League Commander Torn heads to the Naughty Ottsel for a few drinks, but gets far more than he reckoned on when a figure from his past emerges from nowhere; a former Krimzon Guardsman who sits across from him, draws a pistol and declares he'll pull the trigger on account of the former KG Captain. Join them as they relive the day where the entire course of the Metal Head War changed.

Prologue: A Night at the Ottsel

Haven City tonight was hot and sticky, a result of the summer that rolled over the region, sweeping the humidity from the surrounding jungles into the coastal winds off the newly expanded port. Without the old barrier walls to keep the city's environment contained, this new phenomenon resulted in the South Port district being extremely uncomfortable to stay in, a weather pattern the residents hadn't yet adjusted to. Even the breeze wafting through the military issue Hammer Head Torn was driving with the windows rolled down didn't do much to dispel the horridly thick atmosphere. Haven's new craze for ground-based vehicles as opposed to anti-grav Zoomers was a curious one, but also one the Guard took to with aplomb. Too bad it was cut short by the current crisis, with eco so scarce these days. Was it a bit selfish to take a Guard vehicle out to get a drink with the current problems? Yes, but Torn took the liberty tonight. He needed a Mar damned drink, and the Guard had a total lock on the little eco left. From League HQ to the Port was only a short drive, so he justified it in his mind that a little stress relief would help him work better.

And stress relief was needed. For so long, Haven City's worry about eco supplies had been about finding more, sucking it up as quickly as possible and figuring out how to turn it back around into the war machine. Now, however, that system lacked the supply, and demand was enormously high with the scarcity. This had caused issue after issue with Ashelin, her new city council and Torn's Freedom League forces. Finding out what took priority right now was just as vital as finding another eco source, now that both the eco fields and the drill platform were coming up with busts. Dry wells already picked over by Metal Head and elf alike, shafts previously marked as future endeavors that were now mysteriously empty, even deposits at the bottom of the ocean that had suddenly dried up without warning. What little eco was coming in was going to the Guard and future efforts to find more eco. Of course, that was causing just as many problems among the populace. As fuel and power prices soared, vehicles were left empty for weeks at a time, and rolling blackouts plagued the city. It seemed, even four years after the end of the Metal Head Wars and three after the end of the Dethbot Crisis, Haven City simply couldn't get a break.

Grunting in annoyance, Torn dismounted from his blue and yellow vehicle, pushing past the crowd outside to get inside the bar. Some people recognized him, fewer than one might assume. Torn's face may be on the propaganda posters and behind Ashelin as she made her addresses and at council hearings, but just like in real life, he stayed mostly silent, speaking only when needed. Most of those people who recognized him as he pushed in through the door were military, and they either stepped aside in respect or turned away in controlled distaste. The majority of the ex-KG vets had never looked upon him too well as a traitor, even those who hated the Baron's actions too. But Torn never let that bother him, he had known what he was getting into when he defected.

Of course, the civilians who recognized him saw none other than Governess Praxis' enforcer, and he received just as many dirty looks from them too. Such fickle people. Once, he had been a hero to this city, leading the Underground against the tyranny of the Baron and then the Freedom League in holding off the Metal Heads and KG Dethbots. Now that he was helping keep unfavorable laws, however, he was the bad guy. Commander of the newest jackboot regime. Some leaflets and graffiti found around the city had even called him the new Erol…and that was a low blow.

So, as he caught a corner table alone and ordered a strong hit of bourbon, it was little wonder Torn needed to let off some steam. Ashelin was, of course, taking the brunt of the negative attention, but Torn was the one ordering the League Guard to enforce order, put down riots, monitor energy usage to ensure compliance…some days, it felt like they'd gone right back to the Baron's way of doing things. To be blunt, Torn felt like a damn hypocrite, and it made him sick to his stomach. Because honestly, it seemed like there was no other way to keep control right now.

His drink appeared, carried by a scantily clad waitress, and Torn forked over the money without asking for change, grabbing the sour mash by the neck of the bottle, ignoring the shot glass. As the woman made a little noise of disapproval and walked off to go serve other customers, Torn felt the burn of the liquor roil down his throat, and he welcomed it, finally breaking off with a gasping cough after two or three gulps. Jak and Keira had left to figure out this crisis three weeks ago (with that little rodent, he was happy to say) and ever since then the city had gone to hell in a handbasket. If he wasn't careful, Torn might have to fight a revolution, a sick and twisted irony of the highest order.

Over the night, he carefully nursed the rest of the bottle over the next hour, glancing out at the people crammed into the bar. The Naughty Ottsel was doing well with Tess at the reigns, proving the little blonde she-ottsel had more brains than people gave her credit for. As an elf, many had thought her a bimbo, and he had exploited that in full several times to embed her in places where people weren't so careful with their talk because of this. Now she had a business, and had officially retired from the spy business. Torn was happy for her, but sometimes he wished he had her in his corner. Although her current shape might not be so inconspicuous now, he thought wryly to himself.

A pair of military boots came to a halt next to his table, and out the corner of his eye, he spotted gold braids and black cloth. A dress uniform then. They must really want him to come back.

"I told you, I need a night off!" he snapped, turning to the interrupting party. "I left my comm. back at HQ for a re-"

He stopped, words dying on his tongue as he finally looked up at who he was talking to. It only now occurred to him that League dress uniforms were grey, not black, and they used gold epaulets, not a length of braid, as well as a completely different style cap. His eyes immediately flashed to the ribbons and citations on the right breast, and noticed the black skull on red field that was the Voluntary Service Merit. Those were only awarded to those who had enlisted instead of waiting for the draft during the Metal Head Wars. This was a Krimzon Guardsman, a veteran if the service medals were correct. A pair of robotic hands were clasped together in front of the figure, plated with Freeodom League blue instead of KG red. So, someone who had transferred after the change in government. But the Guard had all been issued new uniforms, so…

Finally, he looked up at the soldier's face. As he had expected, there were the facial tattoos, specifically a KG tradition that was falling out of favor more and more often as time went on. On the left cheek was a large, gnarled and pockmarked scar, evident of some kind of battle wound. A jagged gash lunged across the soldier's through, disappearing under the collar. Then there was the twin prosthetic hands, which was tragic enough by itself. This trooper had certainly been mauled.

But Torn squinted, staring harder as he fought the buzz in the back of his head. There was something about this wounded man, this vet in the archaic dress, that called to him from history, bothering him and squirming around in his head. And, as he finally found those hard, steel grey eyes, it finally came to the commander.

"Basker?" he asked, dumb-founded. "Lance-Corporal Basker? Where the hell did you come from?"

"Canals, actually. Grew up right outside the Arena, spent my boyhood trying to sneak onto the racetrack." Basker chuckled at the comment, but his eyes held no mirth.

"Can it, Corporal. I last saw you ten years ago, and you suddenly turn up out of the blue? Start talking."

Basker's face, already hard, took on a steel edge.

"Its Gunnery-Sergeant, sir. Permission to sit?"

Torn wordlessly gestured to the opposite seat, directing the soldier to sit. Nothing about this situation was right at all. The old uniform, the demeanor this guy was showing, turning up out of nowhere right now when everything was as tense as it was. But maybe he was just getting paranoid. Maybe the alcohol was getting to him. Maybe there was nothing to this and it just so happened to be an odd occurrence of a former charge turning up again after so many years.

Of course, that was all dispelled when Basker sat, addressed his uniform for a moment, then reached to his belt and drew a service pistol, placing the weapon on the table.

For a minute or two, there was a shocked silence. Of course, Torn hadn't expected that, but for some reason, he wasn't surprised. What got to him more, however, was that nobody else in the Ottsel seemed to have noticed either the strangely dressed soldier or the eco pistol that had just emerged. Either that or they just didn't care.

"Gunnery-Sergeant. You gonna shoot me with that weapon?" Torn asked, narrowing his eyes. His hand twitched, and he suddenly felt the weight of his own sidearm in its holster. Stupid…he was a bit unsteady with the drink in him, but he figured he could still beat Basker to the draw if he kept him distracted.

"Negative, sir. That would defeat the purpose here."

"And what purpose would that be, Gunny?" Torn was really getting disconcerted by Basker's cold, iron mannerism. The man was stiff, unmoving, his prosthetics still and unmoving.

"There's only one round in there, sir. And it's for me."

"For…you?"

Now things had moved from confusing to downright disturbing.

"Yes sir. I fully intend to put that weapon to my temple, pull the trigger and splatter my brains across this wall, all of it in front of you."

More silence. Again, Torn was curious as to why no one in this joint had noticed the pistol laying on the table in between the two. His fears for his own safety dispelled, Torn took a closer look at Basker. This didn't make sense. A sudden urge to commit suicide in front of a former superior absent for a decade? Torn had been right before, this entire situation was off.

"Got a reason?"

Torn winced. Honestly, with the whiskey in him and his efforts to not cause a panic in the bar, that had really been the only thing he had to ask, and it was too short, too-nondescript and made him sound sharp and sarcastic. He may as well have heard the weapon cocking right now. But Basker simply seemed to accept it, like everything else so far.

"Sir. I hereby accuse you of being a coward, a traitor and turning your back on your men."

"Excuse me?"

Talk about coming out of left field on that one. Suddenly, Torn's mind sharpened up, and he felt the urge to draw his weapon once more and gun this insolent soldier down, but not only would that be an extremely bad precedent in a bar full of people, but it might also just be giving him what he wanted, which appeared to be a nonsensical death.

"Why not just go down to the Underport and feed yourself to the crocadogs, Basker? At least then someone might have some use for your corpse."

"Oh no, I want you to know that it was –you- who drove me to this, Captain. Or at least, you were my Captain. Back in another life. Before you decided the men who signed up to defend this city mattered less than your own personal vendetta. Back before your uprising endangered every single person in this city."

"Are you going to actually say something that makes or just ramble on, Basker? Because I'm getting bored and to the point where I might just shoot you myself."

It was certainly not what Basker was expecting, and the trooper blinked in surprise as he struggled to find something to say. Torn noticed a few eyes glancing over at them, finally noticing the League Commander speaking with someone dressed in a Krimzon full dress uniform. Torn pressed his offensive.

"I'm hearing a lot of talk about how I've done wrong and you're going to shoot yourself in front of me. Sounds to me like you've got a lot to talk about and you want attention. So go throw your pity party on someone else, because I've got real shit to deal with, and you're not even on the radar, Lance-Corporal."

For several more seconds, silence reigned, true silence this time, as the bar had fallen silent. Only the jukebox was making noise, and Torn felt that if someone had dropped a needle in the bar at this moment, it would have sounded like a gunshot. He glanced over at Basker, and suddenly realized that the soldier's face had changed. His facial tattoos, like all KG service ink, spiraled in smooth blocks around his eyes, which suddenly registered with shock, confusion and, most importantly, depression. And there were bags, Torn realized. Judging from their depth, Basker hadn't slept properly in a long time, probably had been awake for a few days now. Something was terribly wrong, and it seemed as if his former comrade was making the connection to him.

Torn glanced at all the other shocked and curious eyes staring at them through the bar and, considering all the options, finally made a decision. He raised a hand, waving at the rest of the bar.

"Mar dammit, can't two guys have a disagreement without everyone else getting involved?"

"Asshole," someone muttered nearby, and the bar grunted in general agreement, slowly turning back to their drinks and dancing. They were, once again, covered by the crowd. Torn looked back at Basker, picking up the bottle and pouring a shot this time, pushing it over at the man. Basker took it without a word, slugging it back in one go before bringing the glass back down. His movements with the prosthetics were stiff, but he was clearly familiar with them.

"I don't remember those from last time. Where'd they come from?"

Basker chuckled wryly, another laugh with no humor behind it at all.

"Where do all scars come from? Battle, of course. In this case, a Spyder Gunner who took exception to me when the shield wall went offline during the Baron's Fall. Decided to make an example out of me and ripped my arms off in front of my squad. They shot the bastard and rushed me to the hospital."

Torn winced, glancing at the trooper's jacket. Indeed, all the way up to the shoulder he noticed the telltale bumps and valleys. The physical therapy to recover from that had to have been brutal, not to mention the psychological trauma.

"And up here?" He gestured at his own cheek, but Basker already seemed to know what he meant as a three-fingered (only three thick, blunt fingers on each hand, Torn noticed, as well as a thumb) hand was already up at his cheek, gently stroking the horrid scar.

"Two years ago, defending Freedom League HQ. A Dethbot shock bot gave me a makeover with ten-thousand volts to the face. I was actually clinically dead for two minutes before they got some green eco in me."

Torn considered the man again. A hard-bitten veteran, if he had served since the commander remembered, and up until the last war. A long time to live in the trenches…for someone so young. Basker couldn't be more than twenty-seven right now, and yet he moved and looked like a man twice his age. Stiff, tired and attempting to keep an air of right around him.

"You look like hell, Basker. What happened to you?"

Basker chuckled, sliding another drink down his throat. "You did, sir. When you deserted and started the Underground, the war changed for everyone in the Guard. Suddenly we weren't just fighting the Metal Heads and keeping people from descending into chaos, we were fighting a rebellion too. Go out on patrol in the Slums, you were probably going to get ambushed. Just got off your shift and want a drink? Careful it's not poisoned. Gotta take a piss while on guard duty; make sure your damn throat wasn't going to get slit. –That- was not the war I signed up to fight. Your boys put a lot of good men in the ground."

"I'm sorry I had to do it, but it was necessary. The Baron had to be stopped."

"And all the troopers who died for doing their duty? Serving their city? Sir, if I may, you destabilized the entire effort. No one wanted to sign up anymore. The KG was on the verge of drafting from those who were previously unqualified. The old, the young. I was there when they started writing up the projections. We were going to take whoever could hold a rifle and walk."

"Doesn't surprise me. I'm glad we were that much of a thorn in their side, that's the whole point of a resistance movement."

"Sir…Torn. You don't get it. You guys split the war in half. Those guys fighting the Metal Heads had to fight inside the city too. The number of Hellcats, Zoomers, soldiers and heavy weapons available…" Basker paused, watching Torn's face carefully. "There were some good guys in the Guard, y'know. Good men and women. Doing their job. We weren't all punch-clock bastards, some of us actually –wanted- to serve the city, keep the Metal Heads at bay."

Torn leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "There weren't enough of you. Yeah, I made sacrifices. There was some collateral, but that's what happens when you put on a uniform. You take on the grudges and sins of the guy whose symbol you wear. Well I didn't want to wear those sins anymore. So I left." Torn paused, shaking his head. "You can't pin none of that on me."

"Sure as hell can," Basker retorted. His left hand clenched the table so tightly, the wood creaked, threatening to splinter under his metal grip. "If you hadn't put together the Underground, we wouldn't have had to worry about walking home at Mar damned night. Could have fought the Metal Heads on even terms instead of slowly getting pushed back inside the city itself, cut off from everything else. I…we wouldn't have been shooting kids in the street who had no business fighting a revolution. You think you made sacrifices, sir? Ask the guys who were ordered to kill kids with guns."

Basker was quiet for a minute or two, grabbing another drink and down it. When he finally got himself squared away, he said, quietly "I still have nightmares. About both wars, of course. Seen a lot of bad shit. But nothing as bad as…as Dead Town."

Torn immediately felt himself sober up. Of course. Of course that was the cause of all this. Seven years before Torn met Jak, Dead Town had fallen in the course of a day when the Metal Heads had broken through. He'd been there, in command of a contingent of Guardsmen tasked with holding the Miracle Mile. Basker had been there too, fought under Torn's command. In fact, the two of them had gone through hell that day. But in the end, the story was always the same. The Baron sacrificed innocent lives because, in the Baron's own words, _"It would take as many troops to defend it as lives we can actually save. Leave it, Captain. Let it sink."_ That day had caused Torn to wake up to the corruption and brutality he had ignored for so long, and he had defected a week later. But men like Basker…on that point, the former Guardsman was right. They were just doing their jobs, following orders and trying to save a city under siege. Truth be told, that day still haunted Torn too.

"Have you…talked about it to anyone?"

"What, you mean like a shrink? So they can slap me around for my head as well as my arms and give the records more reason why I can't take care of myself?" Basker sighed, shaking his head. "They don't understand."

"And blowing your brains out in public right here in front of me is going to make people get it?"

"I didn't want it to be…for nothing. You hear about guys all the time, eating their guns and they aren't found for days. Rotting, alone in their place. Only found because someone called about the smell."

"So you're still serious about suicide? I was starting to hope it was some kind of in the moment thing." He watched Basker, noticed the stone silence and the mile-long stare. He'd seen that kind of stare before, in other traumatized veterans. He'd known many of them who had also offed themselves, and the symptoms were sometimes impossible to spot. He couldn't do anything for those men and women. But he could save this one. "Let's go over it. You and me."

Basker blinked hard in surprise. "What, the battle? Here? Us?"

"You see anyone else here that survived it? Ex-KG are disappearing from the ranks. Ten years is a long time, Basker. Most of the men from Dead Town are dead, or run off to become mercenaries or bandits. I've kept track as well as I can, and its astonishing how few are left from our old unit." Torn poured another two fingers of whiskey, slugged it down before pouring one for Basker. "So…why don't we go over it again? It's not doing either of us any good replaying it in our heads. And I sure as hell haven't talked to anyone about what I saw either. No…not even the Governess. In case you were wondering."

The look on Basker's face said he had been…but didn't want to say.

"Okay, sir. If you think it'll help. I'll share the story as we both know it."

And with that, the two old soldiers took a walk back into the past that few remembered, and even fewer spoke of in detail anymore. The battle that had created the district known as Dead Town.


	2. Chapter 1

**(A Word From the Author:** welcome all, to my second attempt to stay dedicated to fanworks online. I've always had a soft spot for Jak and Daxter, and seeing the Lost Frontier sour on me followed by the news that Naughty Dog had moved on to another IP hit me really hard in a soft place. It made me start filling in the gaps in my head. Just what had happened in Dead Town to make the situation so bad? How was the siege of the Metal Head nest botched? What other battles took place before the game began? Stick with me through this, and we'll find out together.

While this fic is populated by OCs, I strive to place them a little bit better than Sues, as well as have plenty of shout-outs and cameos by actual in-game characters. So sit back, relax and enjoy the military war prologue no one asked for, and leave a word if you had a question or comment about the story. Remember, I write for -you guys-.)

* * *

 **Old Soldiers: the Battle of Dead Town**

Chapter One: Impregnable

" _Honestly, nothing was really happening that morning. No indication of what was coming at all."_

" _Thinking back on it, sir, we should have known better."_

" _Yeah…hindsight's a real bitch."_

 **10 years ago…**

It was always dangerous to work installations outside of the city walls, but at the very least it came with the assurance that these places had heavy defenses. The drill platform was fitted with a dozen heavy turrets that the security staff were well-versed in operating, the pumping station was intentionally designed as a literal labyrinth where Metal Heads and marauders could easily be funneled and picked off from high above, the eco fields had sentry bot oversight and the latest mineshaft efforts were staffed with a full company of Krimzon Guard troopers. Yes, it was a dangerous job to be an industrial worker, but the pay was damn good.

The Kadorna hydroelectric dam, where the water flow channeled through eco-arc reactors to charge power to the city, was one of the primary providers of blue eco to the city, a rare example of artificial eco production backwards engineered from Precursor technology. Its own defenses came in the form of a pair of massive, dual-cannoned artillery turrets, able to nail anyone stupid enough to come up the valley, where every single millimeter was already pre-sighted. The guns had proven their worth several times, bombarding clusters of Metal Heads with barrages of red eco warheads and scattering the monstrous creatures to the winds. After a while, the raids lessened to a rate where even security personnel were scaled back and reassigned. Anything to reduce costs for the Baron's war machine.

On this particular day, mid-level Foreman Vin Ladok clocked in to his station with no apparent reason for the roiling, churning apprehension in his gut. Working outer posts like this as he had the last seven years had given him a sixth-sense for when bad situations were coming, the result of too many breaches in security, Metal Heads swarming into the facility and massacring whoever they could reach. But here at the dam, the other managers always laughed at Vin behind their hands. Kadorna had never been breached before, and never would be. Those big guns were too good, they said. No Metal Head would ever make it up the valley, and the rocky cliffs made an assault from the flanks impossible. The dam was the most secure position aside from Haven itself, and Vin's suspicions were obviously misplaced.

Still, as he watched over the sluice gates, Vin couldn't get rid of the apprehension in his gut.

"Uh…boss?"

He glanced up at Dortmund, his right hand man. They were in Vin's office, and the man had just finished with the latest productivity reports. Dortmund was a large foxbear of a man, with enormous shoulders and calloused hands that told of his life as a man of industry of some kind or another. A particularly large and jagged scar on his arm was from a Lurker shark he claimed he had run into working at a cannery, but that was a bit much for even Vin to swallow. He'd helped his foreman keep things down here at this level running smoothly, and thanks to that output was high, even if the rest of the dam facility looked at the rest of the boys down here as 'sewer rats'.

"Er, uh, sorry Dortmund. Just a little…everything's good, right?"

"Yes, boss."

"Okay. Keep it that way, and the longer things go right, the sooner I'll feel better."

He just had to get through this day, he thought as he stood and looked out at the sluice gates again, watching his workers at their jobs. After all, today was going to shape up alright, just like any other day. Nothing bad was going to happen. Right?

Well, it turned out that thought was wrong in its extreme, as a thick, black tentacle shot out of the water, smashing through the grilles over the water flow. Reaching up, it slapped onto the mesh bridge over the water, pulling hard and yanking the structure down, bringing the four elves manning their stations down into the water. Immediately, they disappeared under the surface, and dark red blotches took their place. Cannoning out of the water came a half dozen forms, all of them lanky, grotesque and overextended, it seemed. All of them with yellow gems in their foreheads.

"METAL HEADS!" screamed Dortmund, and the workers fled, panicking as they attempted to get away while the Hoseheads and Saw Fish immediately set to work hunting them down. Limbs flew, blood splattering as Vin's men died in front of him by the score, and he shrieked as he dove behind his desk to avoid the tattered remains of a corpse sent flying by the Squid Head still in the water, flailing around for something to kill. Nearby, two security guards moved up, clutching Scatterguns in their hands as they got to work, red eco shells booming and dropping a few 'Heads as they moved in.

"SEC HQ, this is Sigma-2! We're under attack, Metal Heads coming in through the sluice gates! Request immediate-"

Of course, whatever the guard was about to request was cut off by the wall behind them exploding outwards, exposing the Metal Head Spyder that had just ripped through. Snagging one of the guards, he casually considered the struggling elf in its claw before seeming to scoff, crushing the man's head almost as an afterthought. Behind the Spyder came dozens of Hoppers, accompanied by a trio of Juice Goons that pushed through the breach, swiftly overtaking the other security guard. Under the mass of flesh, the boom of his gun sounded once, and then he fell silent, all while more and more Hoseheads and Saw Fish kept emerging from the waters.

"Boss! What do we do?" yelled Dortmund as he tossed an eco pistol to Vin, firing two shots into a Hosehead trying to climb up into their office.

In response, Vin did the only thing that seemed to make sense; scramble across the room, smash a fist into the glass panel and pull the red handle on the other side. Immediately, a siren began blaring as red lights flashed.

"EVERYBODY OUT!" Vin screamed to his surviving workers, some of whom tried to defend themselves with large wrenches or even their bare hands. It didn't work too effectively, and as Vin and Dortmund moved to the doors they watched a pair of workers get cut down brutally and torn to shreds still screaming as they were overtaken by the flood of monstrous flesh. Everyone else ran for the security doors, where they made a final stand to buy as much time for everyone to get out. But as the meter-thick doors closed on the carnage, Vin could still hear the screams of his workers as they were eaten alive, their flesh shredded and their blood spraying everywhere.

* * *

Captain Torn didn't much like garrison work. Trapped inside the city, he should feel safe, but he had already been on two combat tours outside the walls in a year of service, and now all he could see were killzones, ambush spots, bottlenecks and weaknesses to cover. Haven didn't feel safe, it felt like a death trap. It was a common problem other KG officers and troopers suffered from after being out in the numerous combat zones of the Wastelands and the Forbidden Jungle. His last tour had been to the failed siege of the Metal Head Nest, where a wounded Baron had finally passed down word to pull back to the city. They'd lost a lot of troopers, tanks and cruisers trying to take the fight to the enemy, and all for what?

As an officer, Torn had his own quarters, the floor above his company. Normally, his junior officers were supposed to also have their own rooms. If any were left. No, all of his lieutenants had been torn apart by Metal Heads already, the same that had happened to a large portion of his troopers. By Mar, he barely had enough sergeants left to coordinate squads, and put together they might have a single platoon's worth of men and women. But Karnifex Company was essentially finished, so far as their future looked. They'd probably be folded into another understrength unit while Torn went on to face the court-martial he deserved.

Did he forget to mention he'd been staring at his reflection in his bathroom mirror since 0300 this morning?

With an irritated grunt, he pulled the cabinet open, retrieving his razor and cream quickly. The clock on the wall was flashing 0524, and his men were supposed to report for inspection at 0600. Karnifex presumably were almost done with their own personal hygiene, if the water he could hear in the pipes was any presumption. Even in transition, Krimzon Guardsmen were trained to move quickly on everything. If it could be done in five minutes, it could be done in four. That was a saying as common as facial tattoos, and Torn made sure the men and women under his command lived it. That had saved lives in the past.

With several quick swipes, he pulled the razor over his cheeks and chin, and the little red stubble that had been present was immediately discarded, washed away in the sink as he patted a cloth over his face, his eyes down. He'd rather not look himself in the face again, might get stuck for a few more hours in self-pity.

Next came the uniform. As an officer, he had a little more flexibility in how he wore his garb. So far as he had heard, newly promoted Commander Erol still bore his Kommando jumpsuit, and then there were other officers like Major Hazlin, Captain Rupertikjakmos and Lieutenant Praxis…

Ashelin.

He had to stop thinking of her. Back to the task of his uniform. Grey field jacket, trousers, chest armor, tactical vest. He considered the other plates, but after a moment left them in there, settling for his shoulder pauldrons. His troopers weren't in full armor today either. They were free to travel around today while he took care of administrative tasks. Just busy work until they got around to disciplining him. Kommand just had to work through the broken wreck of an army that had returned from the Nest.

His hand reached to pull out the wicked, curved blade he had stashed in the bottom of his foot locker. The last gift from Master Sergeant Wulfe. Made of Metalpede carapace and sharp enough to split hairs, it was a wonderous weapon. Torn had already put it to use avenging his men on Metal Heads skulls, but the ledger had yet to even out. To him, it never would. But then again, he'd probably never get the chance to settle the score. He grunted, strapping the knife on over his chest and fishing out his dress cap. At the very least, he could give the impression of being an officer before they hauled him off to the Fortress.

Finally, Torn stood and addressed himself in the mirror. Just as he'd expected, the view that looked back was that of a decorated captain, armor and uniform kept in perfect condition, not a hair out of place on his head and officer's cap positioned to the closest degree of being completely straight.

"C'mon, Keane," he muttered to himself. "Let's go play soldier."

* * *

As expected, the second he opened the door downstairs to Karnifex Company's drill pad outside, he was answered with the cry of "Company! Atten-HUT!"

The clap of thirty-four boots answered the cry, and Torn looked out at what was left of his unit. Most of them were too young, elves that had been conscripted or forced into enlisting in order to give their families a place to live outside of the Slums. He spotted several that looked like they had been drafted from here, the Dykes District, street punks used to the undercity carved below their feet. Standing before the three rows of his men, four figures stood at their fore. Staff Sergeant Dortmund, the sensible veteran with buckets more experience than Torn had. She'd probably get promoted to Gunnery Sergeant, given a much more prestigious position with her clean career. Well, aside from this one blemish. Sergeant Yelwin, the newest sergeant he had. Yelwin's own cheery outlook had been tarnished by their last tour, and Torn knew that every smile the former jokester cracked was forced, every joke recalled and recited from memory rather than an actual sense of humor today. Yelwin was broken, somewhere inside. Sergeant Karper, the intellectual. Rather than keep pushing as an enlisted man, Karper had applied to attend War College, and earn his commission as a lieutenant. Torn wished him luck. At least someone was pushing for brighter horizons.

And, finally, Gunnery Sergeant Ramos. He'd taken over as senior company NCO after Wulfe had been speared by a Mantis claw during the Siege. Now, he was in charge of managing a multitude of misfits and remnants pulled from the ruins of four platoons, a job he often handled the details of everyday while Torn gave the general orders. Today, behind Ramos and the other three NCOs, the thirty troopers they had left stood in their new squads with backs straight, bootheels together and salutes anchored at their brows, fingers barely touching their red caps. But Torn could feel their stares on him. Could feel them leveling their accusations at him.

"At ease," Torn finally called as he took his position at the head of the formation. He saluted Ramos, who nodded and moved to the back of the formation, where Wulfe belonged. Precursors, was he going to let this eat him up all damn day long? Torn shook himself.

"We're still on standby until they figure out what to do with us. Apparently a survival rate of twenty-five percent isn't that uncommon, so Kommand is trying to cut through the tape to get to us. But don't worry. When Karnifex gets our orders, I know you'll all receive the postings you deserve. You've all done me proud this last year, and I'm honored to have been your captain and led you and our fallen comrades as best I could." He didn't say it. No one else had to. His best hadn't been enough, and now he was going to pay for it. But the company stayed silent. Staring. His eyes locked on one elf in the middle of the formation. Lance Corporal Basker. Dedicated trooper. Already decorated twice for valor under fire, and again for voluntary service. This elf had put himself in the line of duty, and for it had been left with psychological scars as he watched his friends be torn apart by monsters. For him and many young troopers like him, Torn had failed. Now, Basker's own gaze back at the captain felt like a laser sight, ready to fire off accusations. None would have been disputed.

Torn finished his briefing. "General maintenance is to be carried out until zero-eight-hundred-hours. At which time, you'll all be dismissed for the day. Let's get the place cleaned up, everything accounted for and then we can go and enjoy ourselves. Curfew is, of course, eighteen-hundred hours. I expect all of you back here at least thirty minutes before that, but that's nothing new. You all can handle yourselves." He nodded towards the back of the formation. "Gunney, take charge and move them out."

Torn almost couldn't move away fast enough. As soon as Ramos saluted him to take charge again, Torn was pivoting away, eager to escape the sight of the troopers he could barely stand in front of.

He almost made it back into the barracks before the alarms started going.

* * *

Some would say being the 'princess' of Haven City carried with it a lot of benefits. An enormous palace, an assurance of a career in the Krimzon Guard, the knowledge that she was safe from persecution and random searches. But Lieutenant Ashelin Praxis knew what she was; a golden bird, put into a cage for all to look at. Her medals hung on the wall, her achievements blasted to anyone who would listen. Her posting in the Air Corps meant she was behind the yoke of a Hellcat interceptor, blasting down Metaljackets and other flying terrors.

But she had been given those things. Not by her father, he would rather kill her than submit to nepotism. But by the pressure. Officers who realized who she was and would hold her up for all to see, lest they anger the Baron. Soldiers who backed down to let her take the credit and the glory. She had barely passed Basic Flight, yet had received near full marks on her test sheet. She knew she hadn't done that well.

And now, here she was, standing at the foot of her father's bed, watching the medics try and save his life. Normally, with him out of commission she would take governance of the city, but the Council had stepped in and mentioned her rather low military ranking. They had a point, but Ashelin had mainly wanted to take the post to deny it to…

"Such a shame the Baron is not well," Erol said off the cuff. To anyone else, it might seem a neutral statement to try and make small talk, or even expressing concern over a superior's bad condition. But Ashelin knew the Commander well enough to know that smug tone. Loyal as he was, Erol craved power in any way, shape or form. And being in unchallenged command was the closest he could come to ruling Haven City right now. And the bastard absolutely loved it. "I can't imagine what its like."

"Not so different than when he's on campaign," Ashelin replied, watching Baron Praxis closely. That wasn't far from the truth, actually. Often, when he was leading his armies to buffer and repel the Metal Heads, he would send a message once or twice a week. That was when he ironically felt like a real father, when he would use her as an escape from the war. He would soften, send her a call and ask how she was doing, talk to her for a few minutes as a father, not as a commander. Here, when he was managing the city and making sure the Council wasn't trying to plot against him, he was the Baron, and her commander. She rarely received a 'good night' in the evening.

But now, bed-ridden and pumped full of drugs as he recovered from his wounds, Praxis had softened again. That didn't mean he wasn't suspicious of everyone else that came into the room, and he kept asking her to check the drugs to ensure there was no poison, but sometimes she would sit at his bedside and he, tired and drugged, would talk to her. Actually talk. She hadn't seen this part of her father since her mother had died.

As she had thought, Erol took the meaning differently. "Of course. He's going through so much right now. It's got to be taking a toll on him. All we can hope for is a…speedy recovery." That smirk said Erol hoped otherwise. Snake. And, of course, the prick immediately moved on to talking about himself once more. " But don't worry. So long as I'm in charge, we should be able to protect the city. Until he is ready to resume command of course," he added quickly.

The Precursors must have had a rather ironic sense of timing, as on the heels of his declaration, red lights began flashing. In another room, a klaxon blared, long and slow. The attack siren. Ashelin was already moving with Erol by the time she was aware of her surroundings. The palace's command center was built a level below the main throne room, a necessity when the Baron insisted on personally taking supreme command of his force. Officers and support staff of various ranks were already on multiple consoles, many yelling into communications devices for status updates, recon reports, aerial wings brought to alert and the activation of various forces and contingencies. No one paused when Erol and Ashelin stepped in, though several aides and junior officers stepped forward. Technically, she wasn't supposed to be here according to her rank, but due to the fact that the Baron was her father, once more protocol was ignored on her account. In this case, however she didn't mind. Someone had to keep Erol reign in.

"Commander, the Kadorna dam was attacked. All reports say its Metal Heads."

"How?" Luckily, Erol's brain in regards to military matters stayed on point, and he didn't waste time declaring it impossible. Kadorna was rated as impregnable, so good was its security, and several officers had claimed it might even be more fortified than any other outer site.

"An amphibious assault from the Forbidden Jungle, sir. They swam downriver and infiltrated the sluice gates, then opened up the site for subterranean infiltration."

"What's their status now?"

"Heavy casualties, both among security and workers. Airborne reinforcements have already been dispatched with CAS attached, they'll evacuate whoever is left."

"What's the status on the defensive works?" Ashelin queried, studying the holographic readout of the site. "The cannons and turrets?"

"Mostly neutralized, ma'am. But they weren't designed to fight an incursion from –inside- the walls. Everything was in the wrong place," said an attendant, as if a second lieutenant being there was absolutely natural, despite his own captain's badge. Hypocrites.

"Do we know what their end goal is?" Erol queried, taking a datapad and holding it up to study it while keeping an eye on the readouts.

"Well…if they take the dam, they'll be able to reroute the eco output. That'll hurt us, but Metal Heads have no use for blue eco. They can't consume it, and none of their technology runs off it. They could always destroy it, but we've still got units in the Wasteland, covering the evacuation. This isn't much of an obvious target-"

And then it hit both Erol and Ashelin like a dual lightbulb moment. Ashelin turned away, calling for a roster of all available Hellcats that could be scrambled in a moments' notice while Erol scrolled the map over to Haven City. The other officers were visibly confused for a moment before Erol zoomed in on the Dykes District, just outside the South Slums. And then, of course, his point became obvious.

The Dykes District was parallel to the Pumping station. It channeled the water through there and the blue eco coming from the dam in question. And a lot of its expansion was below sea level, making the infamous Undercity that carved a whole separate district that reached under the Slums. If the dam broke, the valley would send that newly released lake all the way down to the city, where it would only have two places to go; the pumping station and against the walls of the Dykes. And if those walls were compromised anywhere…

"They're going to flood the Dykes," Ashelin said aloud.

"And when the dykes break, the walls flood. And if they breach the walls, the defenses and shield will be compromised. They'll be able to breach the barrier and invade the Dykes, the Undercity, maybe even the Slums and the Industrial district," Erol said, pausing as he considered the situation. Around him, the chaos continued, a little more muted as the officers realized the implications of the Metal Head activity.

Finally, Erol stood up straight, pointing at the Dykes. "Activate every Guardsman we have in those four sectors. Give me air power, mechs, tanks, even reservists! Draft civilians on the street if you have to, but whatever happens, we stand ready when the Metal Heads breach that dam!"

* * *

High up in the hills, where one could barely see Haven City in the valley below, a Metal Head Centurion fired a few more shots as the Air Train full of troopers and civilians flew overhead. There were several red-armored corpses on the ground around it, of course, and scores more workers, all of whom were now being torn into by the Leapers and Grunts. They deserved a good meal. It had been a successful mission, after all. Rewards were in order.

The Centurion turned, deactivating his shield before stepping over to his subordinate, the Spyder that had opened the breach. A corpse nearby stirred, and the Centurion glanced at the barely living elf before spearing the woman with a single stab before turning back. With a wave of his clawed hand, he gave his orders.

Deep below, the eco-bombs the Metal Heads had prepared were fastened to the sluice gates, the hydrogenerators, the blue eco battery cells and the very foundations of the dam. Everything was in place. Within an hour of the Air Trains evacuating the survivors, the Centurion stood triumphantly in the dam's control center, a reinforced structure that his strike group now inhabited. The aquatic creatures were prepared to dive as soon as the way was cleared, but the landbound forms would require another route to reach the city.

In the meantime, however, the Centurion raised an arm, pressing a button on the detonator. With a rumble and the scream of breaking metal and groan of straining concrete, the bombs detonated, and they could already see cracks appearing in the wall of the dam, water spilling out as blue eco lanced up and down the structure.

And then, under millions of tons of water newly freed, Kadorna began to crumble under the sheer weight and pressure.

The city would fall this day, as Kor demanded.

* * *

( **Parting Shots:** I debated leaving Torn's first name a mystery because of his rather ambiguous nature, but decided to give him an identity after all. While not used often in a military complex, a first name gives a person a background, a past. And this is a Torn origin story, after all.

Let me know what you guys think! Flames will be used to keep my fire warm. It's damn cold. And, of course, the next chapter will certainly be up much faster than the last!)


End file.
